Hotel California
by Ywander
Summary: Lead Lowestone is an aging rock legend. He's seen it all and done it all. After a car accident, he checks into the exclusive Hotel California and maybe, just maybe, he can get away with his most recent fiasco. He soon finds out things are not what they seem in the hedonistic hotel and Lead is forced to confront his own demons as he finds out in how much trouble he really is.
1. Part 1 - The Crossroads

**PART 1 – THE CROSSROADS**

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Freedom, mate, what is freedom?

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It's a good question, that's what it is. Can you find freedom on a dark desert highway? Tearing through the night in an open '67 GTO; foot flat on the floor, engine roaring like a prehistoric monster out for blood; cool wind in my hair, trying to pull it out; the warm smell of colitas rising up through the air; is that freedom?

Or is it skipping out on your fans, dodging the press and ignoring the endless list of missed calls from your agent? Is freedom running like hell before they find out you're gone and come after you with all the mindless determination of a global zombie infestation?

Freedom… as if there really is such a thing. Certainly not for me. Goddamnit, look at me, Lennard Washford, better known as Lead Lowestone, lead singer of the Bold. Reckless driving is one of the few precious things I have left for myself. Fuck my fans, fuck my obligations and double fuck my agent. Not now, JoJo, not now. Now I'm sitting behind the wheel of my ridiculous expensive toy, trademark scarf around my neck and a bottle of Jack between my legs. That's me being a badass and I'll be damned if it doesn't make for an awesome photo op. If you didn't know any better, you'd think I was doing it on purpose just for the looks.

Like that bitch from Rolling Stone Magazine, the one who claimed I wasn't a rock star, only clinging to the stereotype of one. She had the balls to say it should be long past me at the age of 61. She asked me why I wouldn't let go and act more responsible, more sensible. Like the other guys from the old days. But not me, nooooo, not Lead Lowestone. Smug little bitch. Too bad she was a dyke. Must've been. Otherwise she'd been in my hotel room, eating her own words, among other things, and screaming for more. I let her go; I had a better time doing a couple of lines and some other dumb chick who never learned to keep her legs together.

As if life is about to end when you hit sixty. Dumb health gurus don't know the power of the chemicals we have access to these days. Tired? Coke is still king. Or some XTC, if you're out to party. Got a limp dick? Viagra is there for you, my friend. Feel a panic coming on? Xanax.

Sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, baby, that's the life. Always was and always will be. Call it a cliché if you want; it still beats the health food and exercise and regular sleep and all that crap they want you to stick to. As long as you keep your wits about you, you'll be fine. That has always been my mantra. Keep your eyes open, sonny. And truth be told, I've had some narrow escapes in the past. If I hadn't kept my eyes open, I'd be dead already. Several times over probably. Dead like that chick in '99 at KIIS FM's new year's eve party in LA. The dawn of a new millennium and the whole world was celebrating. Everything was going to be different. Without a doubt the best night to party and the only thing I'll ever remember are her eyes.

Big, round, somehow still full of the innocent surprise little kids have. Staring down from the star shaped mirror on the ceiling, back down on the both of us. Christ, it was like being sandwiched between two dead chicks. She wasn't even that hot, just an easy lay who brought her own happy dust. I should've known the stuff she had with her couldn't be trusted. My God, what if I'd gone first? It would have been me coughing up my lungs all over the sheets, veins standing out like rubber tubes, clawing at my throat as I gurgled on my own blood and my heart blown to bits inside my chest. So much blood. It was everywhere. The sheets were soaked in it. But it will be her eyes staring at me whenever I close mine.

Whopper wasn't happy, but he knew it was an accident. He knows I'm not a bad man. It was her own damn fault. But it wasn't like the Reno gig where the cops showed up out of nowhere, looking for the bands private stash. Man, that must've been our road manager's golden moment of stoicism. No, he wouldn't be sweet talking the cops out into the lobby again, while the rest of the band snuck out the back in their underwear and jumped into Johnny Burly's Caddy. When Whopper found out about the dead chick in LA, he knew it would be the handcuffs, the press vultures lying in wait and a courtroom full of people, fuck no, the whole world just aching to see him squirm. The public loves a fallen hero and they hadn't been fed a while.

Did Whopper freak out? Whopper didn't freak out. Not him. Not after what he'd seen throughout the years, babysitting one big rock star after another during their tours. That cold hearted bastard took care of it. I don't know how; I didn't ask, he didn't tell. Yet the look that was in his eyes. The look of disappointment. As if I hadn't been through enough that night, he had to go and be disappointed in me. He never stopped looking at me like that.

It didn't matter much at first. It was the guilt that had me worried. It was messing with my music, but I worked that out with enough booze and coke. Keeping busy kept me going, you know? But then every time I met up with the band, Whopper would be there with that goddamn look of disappointment in his eyes.

And suddenly I remember where I'd seen that look pop up again. It was in the eyes of the snot nosed brat from Rolling Stone, not long after she told me I'd been her hero for most of her childhood and how she was so excited to finally meet me in person. Perhaps I shouldn't have used my standard pick up line on her. How the best feeling in the world is holding my guitar in my hands, except for a pair of woman's breasts perhaps. That's when I saw it creep up. That look. Nowadays it seems all I get is that fucking look and it pisses me off.

No, I guess that's not true.

It doesn't piss me of as much as it scares me. I can't bear it anymore. Jesus, I need to get out. I need to clear my head. Perhaps just a breather. Yeah, that's it. Rethink my strategy. Let's face it; I need to do _something_ before the life of rock and roll finally finds a way to do me in. I take another swig of Jack and let the burn slide down my throat.

Mum always said the life would kill me and don't you just hate it when mums are right? Wait, why am I thinking of her in a time like this? It's hard enough keeping this antique chunk of muscle on the road doing close to a hundred with the top down. Great, now her face looks down at me from the darkness above the road, her eyes set deep in hard lines. She always looked worried. Worried about how her good natured little son went from choir boy to rock god. From saying his prayers on his knees before bedtime to screaming that temptation is his best friend on stage in front of a crowd worshipping him for it.

Fact is, church doesn't hold many temptations. Only empty warnings against them and no explanation why, except you're supposed to go to eternal damnation for the slightest offense. Can't blame a young bloke for not taking it too serious, can you? Or for being curious? Like peeping into the girls changing room after gym. Once you find out temptations are _fun_, there's no stopping you. And that's when you hit the crossroads. People always think you're standing still at the crossroads, quietly thinking things over, making a calculated decision. No way in hell, mate. You're young, dumb and full of hormones. You are _racing_ towards those crossroads and all you have is a split second. No wonder you make the wrong one so easil_oh fuUU__**UCK!**_

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Keep breathing, just… keep breathing. In and out. In and out. It's all I can do. Keep my head down and keep breathing. My eyes are fixed on my hands cramped around the steering wheel. The engine has stalled, but my foot still presses down on the brake pedal so hard it hurts. My God, what the hell happened? I remember up ahead in the distance I saw a shimmering light, and while I was too busy thinking of crossroads, I completely failed to see the one coming up. Or the car turning in from the right. That guy must've had a heart attack when he saw me coming straight at him. Oh Jesus, my heart. That was close. Spots are dancing before my eyes. My blood is a drum pounding in my ears and my skin feels like it's on fire from the adrenaline overdose. Christ, how did I manage to avoid him? How could I have… What if…

I'm afraid to turn around, but I have to. I keep my eyes fixed on my hands, but I can't ignore the crackle of fire behind me. Or the smell of burning rubber.

Slowly, I turn to look back. There is no way around it. A huge pile of twisted metal, unrecognizable for the car it once was, is burning ferociously besides the road. The surrounding desert is bathed in the orange glow. Nobody could have survived that.

Suddenly I see movement. A man walks from behind the fire to the side of the road. He's holding his arm and he's limping, but otherwise he seems fine. The relief is so intense it sends my head reeling. Oh thank God he's alive. A damn miracle! I ought to go to him, make sure he's okay. Bloody bastard hasn't even seen me. That guy is in for the surprise of his life. First being run off the road and surviving a murderous car crash only to find out it was none other than Lead Lowestone behind the wheel. That'll make some story. A story? Shit!

What have I done? If I go back, there's no way to get a hold of Whopper or JoJo before this gets out of hand. Shit, I should've stayed with the band and taken the damn plane instead. Oh crap, I'm royally screwed now.

I blink, but for some reason my eyes stay close. What appears in the darkness are not just the eyes of the LA chick. It's all of them. Mum's, Whopper's, the Rolling Stone woman's. Everybody and all of them at the same time. The disappointment. Embarrassment too. And shame. It's weighing down on me so heavy I can't breathe. Everybody is disappointed in Lead Lowestone. The sad, old, washed up has-been rock star, who can't keep his shit together. No, please, not that. Anything but that.

It's too much. I can't handle it. Can't breathe. What do I do? Where the fuck is my Xanax? No! For fuck's sake, get a grip. Calm down. The guy's ok, perhaps he's in shock, but if he's alive now, he'll probably stay that way. I feel sorry for the guy, really, but he has no idea of the amount of damage this will do to my reputation and the band's reputation as well. There are so many people involved here. Depending on the band. Depending on me. Yeah, that's it! If not for me, I'd better get the fuck out of here for them.

My hand closes around the keys in the ignition. The engine comes alive with a throaty rumble. I lift my right foot off the break and gently put it down on the accelerator. The GTO rolls away, slowly picking up speed. I press down harder and the engines growls approvingly. Harder and harder I press, until I'm thundering down the road again as if nothing happened.


	2. Part 2 - Checking In

**Part 2 - Checking In**

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It's not long before my head grows heavy and my sight grows dim. I must be getting tired. The adrenaline has worn off and the accident is taking its toll. I've lost track of time and I need to fill this thing up before I run out of gas anyway. All things considered, I have to stop for the night.

A sign comes up out of the darkness up ahead. I pull over to get a better look, but instantly regret it. It's a U-turn sign with 'REPENT' in ugly hand-painted letters above it and 'OR IT'S GOING TO BE HELL' below it. I gun the engine before the car comes to a full stop. Goddamn bible thumpers. I didn't even know they were bothering people this far out west.

The hotel itself doesn't really have a sign. The road just ends up in the parking lot in front of the main building, which is weird because I could have sworn I was still on the interstate. There is a small sign stating 'hotel parking only' though, so I pull up into the nearest empty spot. My bones hurt when I step out of the car and I have to force myself to stand up straight. God, I wish I wasn't getting older. Stiff legs carry me across the parking lot. There are some really nice cars here. A '58 Plymouth Fury, pearly white on blood red, the sexy curves of a silver Mercedes 300 SL gull wing. That one alone must have cost a fortune. From the parking lot it's hard to make out the hotel itself. It looks old with lots of arches. Red brick walls that look a washed out grey in the dark of night and a tiled roof. A rectangle of light appears in the black shadows beyond the middle arch and oh - my - God.

There she stands in the doorway. A pitch black silhouette, but unmistakingly a woman. I draw closer and the warm light from inside slowly reveals more detail. Raven hair and ruby lips. A low cut dress.

'A lost soul,' she says and her voice alone renders my stash of Viagra unnecessary. As I walk up the stairs to stand next to her in the wide opening of the double oak doors, she extends her hand. I take it and immediately yank mine back in painful surprise. Sparks fly from her fingertips with a clearly audible crack as static electricity stings our fingers.

Or perhaps just mine. Her smile never leaves her as she extends a slender arm and beckons me inside. Just as I'm about to step inside I hear the mission bell. I freeze, one foot on plush red carpet, one foot on cold bare stone. A furious look distorts the face of the woman. No wonder, who the hell rings a bell in the middle of the night? It reminds me of the church bells back in London. The highest density of churches in the whole of England and the city still managed to produce one of the world's most famous blasphemes. Involuntarily, I remember father Dowley lecturing me while the church bells of St. Michael's ring overhead. He sits me down in the benches with my hands out on the bench in front of me.

'Do you know why you're here, Lennard?' he asks.

'To serve God?' I can't help being a smartass. Of course I know why I'm here. It's because that prick Nigel ratted me out when we were caught spying on the girls in their changing room. It didn't matter it was Nigel who made the peeping hole it in the first place. He just made sure he was the first to lay blame on somebody else and that somebody else was me.

'No, my son. You are here to be held responsible for what you did.'

I look down at my feet. Now I know I'm in trouble. Father Dowley is old school. He's not one to spare the rod as they say.

'I thought you were different than the other boys, Lennard. I honestly thought you were better than this. Your mother is an honest and hardworking woman. She doesn't deserve the humiliation of her son being caught a Peeping Tom. Tell me, Lennard, are you sorry for what you did?'

I close my eyes and although I do feel sorry, for I know I betrayed my mother's trust in me, all I see is a room full of young girls taking their clothes off. They're laughing and talking and I spot Emma McCall immediately and see how she is completely naked. Her breasts are as big as I imagined they would be and they jiggle as she walks towards the showers.

'Yes, I am,' I manage, severely hoping my adolescent erection doesn't show.

'Of course you are. Lennard, you can lie to me, but do you realize there is someone you cannot lie to? You will have to answer to him eventually. Will you lie to him too? Don't you know you have a choice? It may be difficult to see, but you do. You always do. You know what will happen if you stray from the path. But it is and always will be a choice that leads you there. Do you know where making these choices could lead you?'

Torn between my shame and the urging sensation in my groin, I'm thinking to myself, this could be heaven, or this could be hell. Father Dowley waits patiently. I feel the enormous weight of the church around me and above me. I feel the eyes of Jesus as he looks down on me from above the altar. I can't bear it anymore.

'Look, I said I was sorry, didn't I?' I shout out. The stone walls echo back to us. Big mistake. I look up, but father Dowley doesn't appear to be angry. He's not even scowling. He looks disappointed. It confuses me for a moment, but then a searing pain streaks across my hands. He may be old, but father Dowley is still quick as lightning when he gets the chance to use his ruler. He smacks it down on my fingers again and again. The pain is excruciating and one panick-stricken moment I fear never to be able to play my guitar again. I jump out of the bench and ram my shoulder into the old man, bowling him over onto the cold stone floor. Without stopping, without looking, I run out of church.

'You're only sorry you got caught, filthy little boy, and that's not enough!' father Dowley cries after me. Next Sunday, I fake a flu and stay at home. I stopped listening what church had to say from that moment on.

'Mr Washford? Are you all right?'

I blink and stare in her eyes. They are dark. Seemingly pitch black and endlessly deep. She looks comically puzzled and her frown makes her look even more attractive. Her smell is intoxicating. I'm so tired I don't care she addresses me by my real name.

'Yeah, sorry. I just need some sleep, badly,' I say to her, captivated by those dark eyes. 'I've been driving for a long time and I kind of had a near miss a while back. I need a place to crash and to be honest, I'd never expected you guys to be open at this ungodly hour. Do you have anything available?'

'Of course we have. And we're always open, especially at ungodly hours. Please follow me.'

Then she lights up a candle and shows me the way. I get a good look at her amazing backside shifting below the shimmering red silk of her dress. I'm not so tired I don't notice there are no panty lines in that dress. I don't know what to make of her. She's classy, elegant and sophisticated, but somehow everything about her just makes me want her in a very unclassy, unelegant and a very unsophisticated way. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. All I can do is to keep my cool.

For now.

We're walking up the wide stairs, arriving at an ornamental hallway leading directly away from the lobby. Several smaller corridors lead away from this one. The place is a maze. We pass a dark courtyard and I can't make anything out. We climb another flight of stairs and go down a wide adobe style corridor. She leads me down several of them and I follow like an obedient puppy. When we pass another smaller one I think I hear something. There are voices down the corridor. I thought I heard them say... something. I can't make it out. Hotel hallways always seem to have a weird way of distorting sound. She's walking very close to me now, way inside my personal space. I don't mind and I think she knows it. I'm taller then she is and when I glance to my left, I can look straight down her cleavage.

'I'm sorry I didn't catch your name,' I say as we walk down yet another ornamental hallway. 'Or the name of this place, for that matter.'

'Please call me Cally, Lennard. May I call you Lennard? And welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place.'

'Cali? As in California?'

Her smile is wide and warm and she flashes her long lashed eyes at me. Such a lovely face.

''No, silly, although I do love California. You can find anything you fancy out here. People are not bound by the old rules and they're willing to try things strictly taboo not too long ago. This hotel is a reflection of that lifestyle, a tribute even. Plenty of room at the Hotel California, every time of year. You can do whatever you want. Every whim and every fantasy, you can find it here.

'Every fantasy?' I ask credulously. I can't help giving her my Jack Nicholson grin.

'Well, you know,' she answers and leaves a world of meaning hanging in the air. Again, there's that look.

'So, Hotel California, huh?' I venture, eager to keep the conversation going. I want her to keep talking forever. I want to hear her soft voice saying things to me that would make the memories of the naked girls of St. Margaret's Grammar School sound as boring as Sunday sermons. 'Strange place for a hotel, though. It looks old. Spanish?'

She nods. 'It used to be an old mission,' she says. One of the forgotten missions of California actually, but not one of those two they found again. This one has quite a different history. There are some great ghost stories to tell about this place, you know. Guaranteed to keep you up all night.'

'I bet you do this far out in the desert.'

We turn into the next corridor branching off into utter darkness. The feeble flame of her candle is the only light and it draws us closer to each other. She stops in front of a heavy oak door, one of many identical doors lining the walls.

'Here we are; room number 616.'

I don't want her to go away. I want to pull her close and kiss her. I want to feel her black curls on my face as I sweep my lips alongside her long neck down towards her chest.

I'm not sure if she knows what I'm thinking. I think she does, but she just smiles a little wider and winks. Then she hands me the candle, placing it between us like the smallest of shields.

'I suggest you have a good night's sleep, Lennard. To be honest you look like you need it. And sleep in tomorrow, why don't you? You deserve it.'

With that she touches my arm and walks away, down the unlit corridor. I stare after her until she dissolves into the darkness. I guess I do deserve some rest, although I expect to lie awake all night from everything I went through. The long drive through the desert, the car crash, it all seems so unreal to me now. All I can think of is Cally's perfect ass moving from side to side as she walks away from me.

I realize she hasn't given me a key to my room, but fortunately the door is unlocked. Inside, I cannot help but whistle. I have seen plenty of decadent hotel rooms, trust me, but this one is just gorgeous. Everything is pristine white, just as I like it. A bed the size of a football field dominates the entire room. The bathroom is a cathedral of white porcelain and chrome. But as inviting as the group sized jacuzzi is, I flop down on the bed with my clothes on and immediately drift off into nothingness.

The nothingness doesn't last long however. I can't decide whether it's a dream or one of those hyper realistic memory experiences. All I know is that I'm standing in the kitchen of my mum's house. Dad buggered off long before I can remember, so it has always been my mum's house. It's small, damp and impossible to heat in winter. We didn't have any money; nobody did in those days. Mum worked at the factory. She worked every day and most evenings too, except for Sundays. She worked until her back was permanently bent and still we were never able to pay rent on time. But by God it could still be clean. Every curtain, every table, every floor was a deep clean you don't get with poncy detergents, only with hard scrubbing on your knees.

But not this time. I see a thin layer of dust on the kitchen tiles and so I know something is terribly, terribly wrong. I look up and catch myself in the hallway mirror. My hair is long, my cheeks have pimples. I'm dressed in rough clothes too wide for my stick figure of a body. I can't be older then seventeen.

As I climb the stairs I know what will be waiting for me and yet I climb them anyway. Muffled sounds drift out of mum's tiny bedroom. It's Aunt Christina, mums younger sister. I can see her through the doorway. She's dressed in black and her hair is tied in a black scarf. She's bent over the narrow bed where mum lies. As I enter, I see doctor Flatts and father Dowley are also there. The only person I hate intensely is also the only one who acknowledges my existence. Without a word, he ushers the others out of the room and leaves me alone with my dying mother.

She looks old, so old. I could pick her up and cradle her like a small child. She's lost the hard look in her face, the one that could bite through steel if needed. The cancer took it from her. It took her strength and replaced it with fear. She is dying and she is afraid. I want to take her hand, but we are years past any physical intimacy. Suddenly she clutches my hand and I jump. She always was a mind reader. She'll never say it, but we look each other in the eye and we know. So much heartfelt things remain unspoken.

'Father Dowley tells me you quit the choir,' she manages under her breath. 'He says it's not the same without your voice.'

I say nothing. I have nothing to say and I couldn't manage it if I did.

'He says you've been chumming with those boys from the Buck and Horse.'

This time I nod. The Buck and Horse is notorious for the rough crowd of East End and the rock and roll music that lures them in. The "boys" are Noël and Liam. They started the band Bad Reputation which is sort of the Buck and Horse's main attraction. Every night the band plays, the coppers come and clear the place out. Sometimes that includes the band too. I met up with Liam while having a drink with a friend. He got hit in the throat during a fight and was looking for someone to fill in as a singer for a few weeks. So I sang Robert Johnson's "Cross Road Blues" right there and then and Liam simply told me to come round next Friday night. That was two months ago and I've been singing every Friday and most of the Saturdays since then. If not at the Buck and Horse, then somewhere else. Noël already mentioned it might be a good idea to make me a permanent member of the band. Liam kept having trouble with his throat anyway and the crowd went mad every time I started singing. And every time the crowd goes mad, I get a rush like never before. I feel so alive, so full of fire, so free. It's as if the people are giving me their energy and I can take it, put into my song and give it back amplified. I want to be on stage. I need to be on stage. I need to be free.

All this I can't say to mum. She's not one to stand in the spotlights. She kept her head down and worked hard, minding her own business. She raised three sons the hard way, two of them turned out fairly decent. David worked at Mr Condon, the butcher and Lou was in the navy somewhere. Only Lennard, the runt of the litter, is causing the neighbours to whisper.

'Lennard, look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you.'

I look up from our hands and meet her gaze. I realize the room is cold, so very cold.

'Have you lost your faith, boy?'

I mumble something both indistinct and apologetic.

'Speak up, boy! I have to know.'

She pauses. Her burst of anger is fading away with the last of her energy.

'I have to know if I will see my boy again.'

The meaning of what she is saying hits me. She isn't afraid of death. Not afraid is what is to come. She is afraid she will never see me again, because she is going to heaven and her little boy is going to hell.

I don't know what to say to that.

'I'm not a bad man, mum,' I whisper. 'It's just music. I sing. People like it. I like it. It makes things come alive. Not like church. Church is a tomb. Praying is just talking to yourself and faith is pretending someone listens.'

I know these words hurt her, but she smiles. It is not a warm loving smile.

'Faith? Let me tell you something about faith, boy. Something father Dowley never speaks of in church, because not many people want to hear it.'

She falls into a long hacking cough. It's painful just to watch. When she finally quiets down, I fear for a second it was her last breath she just coughed up, dry and rasping, without a chance to say this last thing she wanted to tell me. Then her eyes focus with such intensity that I'm reminded of the thing David once said to me when he changed the light above the kitchen table. How sometimes a bulb will shine extra bright, just before going out completely.

'Faith, Lennard, does not keep you fed, clothed, safe or comfortable. Faith is not some requirement to be able to ask the Lord for favours, no matter how selfless they may be. Faith's reward is not in this life and it is only attained after much hardship. The cold truth is that the reward may be equal for all, but the hardships are not. On the contrary, faith is definitely not the same as fair. Faith will test you and sometimes faith will burn you.'

Her brittle hand takes mine and she pulls me in. I know these will be the last words, the last exchange we will ever have. Her other hand opens to show the little silver cross she always carried around her neck. She does it without taking her eyes off mine.

'Get out, Lennard, because you know where it burns the hottest.'


	3. Part 3 - Tricky Trixie

**Part 3 - Tricky Trixie**

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I wake up utterly disoriented. Nothing I see makes sense. It's as if the whole room is out of focus and tries to settle into a solid shape, but is unable to decide what that shape should be. Something is wrong with the lights. Dark red and black flash across the white. A dull pounding attacks my ears and it takes a moment before I realize there's someone at the door. I get up but the memory of my mother's deathbed still lingers vividly. It's as if I was just there instead of a memory of nearly 45 years ago. And yet… and yet something's off. The whole thing about faith. I'm not sure; was that really back then?

Still dressed in the same clothes as I lay down in, I open the door. It's Cally. She looks worried.

'Are you all right, Lennard?' she asks me. Her chest is heaving and I'm almost certain she is trying to hide that she's out of breath. Was she running to get to my room?

'We thought you might be… in trouble.'

'I'm fine,' I croak. 'Bad dream, I guess. Who's we?'

'The hotel management,' she answers. Her eyes scan the room and, when nothing seems out of the ordinary, her smile returns like a cat in the middle of the night. 'We have a knack of knowing when our guests are in need of attention. Chalk it up to many years of experience. My apologies for disturbing you. You obviously want to freshen up before the party.'

'Hold on. Party, what party? What time is it anyway?'

'It's dark outside, Lennard. You slept for a very long time. The hotel has organized a big party in the courtyard. Free entrance for all guests and trust me; you don't want to miss it. You could almost say it's compulsory attendance.'

I shake my head to get rid of the wave of dizziness I'm still riding. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

'Are you saying it's night time again? Already? You mean I slept through the whole day? Fuck, I'm supposed to perform tonight and I'm still in the middle of the desert!'

She touches my arm and my whole body goes tingly. I lose track of my thoughts, so hot and clear and urging at first, now come undone and tangle together like wet snow.

'Calm down, Lennard. It won't do anybody any good to panick right now.'

'Ok, ok. Look, I need to make a few phone calls. Where's my cell phone?'

I pat my pockets and find them empty. I stumble back into my room and look around, but it's not there either. Crap, now I remember. I got tired of JoJo calling me every five minutes, so I tossed it in my bag and threw it on the backseat. The backseat of the car which is practically out of gas.

I drop down onto the bed and run my hands through my hair. 'Christ, I'm in deep shit now. JoJo is going to kill me. Whopper is going to kill me. The whole band is going to kill me.'

Cally sits down next to me. I realize we're both sitting on the edge of my huge bed and she's wearing her flimsy red dress again. The skin of her shoulder is perfect and smooth as it disappears under a waterfall of curly black hair.

'I'm so sorry, Lennard,' Cally says. She looks genuinely worried for me. 'If I had known, I'd have arranged for a wakeup call. Is there anything I can do?'

'Can you save my ass?'

'Well, that's a tricky one' she smiles and sighs deep. The swell of her breasts takes my breath away. 'But as long as you're in trouble anyway, at least it's in a good place. I suggest you get yourself something to eat first. Then we'll sort this out. I assure you, we'll take good care of you.'

I have no counter argument. I'm still trying to get to grips with the whole mess I'm in. Not to mention the car crash the previous night. Oh God, what is happening?

'Please, take a shower and put on some clean clothes. I'll have them bring your bag to your room. I'll see you in the courtyard in half an hour and we'll put some food into you that you'll never forget. Then we'll sort you out.'

Cally squeezes my hand softly. It's warm, hot almost. She gets up and leaves me sitting on my ridiculously large bed. She enters the bathroom and soon hot steam is wafting out.

'See you soon.' She winks and disappears from my room.

Drawn in by the luring sounds of the shower, I get up, strip and step into the bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror and stop. That long sleep has done a world of good. It must be the lights in here or something, but it's as if that annoying paunch is almost gone and my back is more straight then it has been for over a decade. I can't help but smile as I step into the shower and let the hot water sting my skin. I wrinkle my nose as the stink hits me in the nose like a stab wound. A smell of rotten eggs coming from the water makes me gag and I slap the shower head to the side in a reflex of disgust. Then I spot the little sign on the wall. It politely states the water is coming from underground geothermic hot springs, rich in minerals which are so very good for you. Unfortunately, sulphur is one of those minerals, which manifests in a 'slight' smell of rotten eggs. The hotel management apologizes for this, but ensures the revitalizing effect of these natural waters will more than make up for it.

When I step out of the shower I do feel like I'm twenty years younger. Whatever they put into the water here, it's definitely good for you. I check my reflection again and notice how the flabby skin under my arms seems less and - though I've never had any reason to complain - even my dick looks bigger. Hot springs, who knew, right? My bag is waiting for me on the bed. First I check my phone, but the battery is dead. Shit, I can't even get to the phone numbers stored in the overpriced high-tech little fucker, so I guess I'll have to wait until it's charged again. At least I still have a clean white shirt and a pair of white cotton pants in my bag. I tie my trademark scarf around my neck in front of the dressing mirror which shows I'm having a good hair day as well. 'Watch out ladies,' I wink to my reflection, 'Lead Lowestone is looking good.'

The screen on my cell phone is still black, so I might as well step outside and find my way to the courtyard.

It's not very difficult. All I have to do is follow the music. Somebody is a master of drums. Not like my own drummer, more like those African hand drums. The beat is hypnotic and leads me along. Yesterday it seemed like it took forever to reach my room from the then dark and empty courtyard and now I turn two corners and find it alive with colourful lanterns, torches and rhythmical music. One half of the courtyard holds tables for guests to drink and eat; the other half is taken up by the band and the dance floor. It's the first time I get to see the other guests. It's packed with the most beautiful people I've ever seen. Now, this is the kind of crowd everybody wants to hang out with! Everybody is dressed in white and looks their best and pretty much all the women I pass on my way to the only empty table, I wouldn't mind waking up with tomorrow.

Just after I sit down, I spot Cally sitting at a table in the middle. She's not alone. Three other guys are sitting at her table and at least twice as many are hovering around her. All are vying for her attention. A vile spike of anger shoots out of my gut and spreads through my body. For a second I see myself going over there and fight them off just to have her for my own. I visualize myself hitting and kicking each of them in the face, blood spurting out, splotching across the white table linen. I feel an intense pleasure as I see myself grabbing them by the hair and smashing their face onto the edge of the back of the seats, not just breaking their noses, but crushing them until they choke in their own blood.

I recoil. Where the hell did that come from? I've never picked a fight in my whole life. Sure, I've fantasized about kicking somebody's ass everyone once in a while, who hasn't? But this was just... I don't know what this was, but I feel like I shouldn't enjoy the kind of thoughts as much as I did just a second ago. I may be an asshole when it comes to ditching women, but I'm not the aggressive type.

I sit down, confused, and spot Cally looking at me. She sips from something blood red and licks her lips approvingly. Again, I get the eerie feeling she can read my mind. God, if she wasn't so painstakingly beautiful and sensual, that chick would seriously freak me out. Even though, or perhaps rather because of it, the creepier she gets, the more I long to have her and explore every square inch of that lithe body of hers

My view gets cut off unexpectedly. A young woman has seated herself across the white table linen and hides Cally from my sight. I blink and focus on her. She's young and vaguely familiar with a 'don't I know you from somewhere' kind of face. She's pretty enough, big eyes and slender figure. With her right hand, she pushes a drink with a little paper umbrella towards me.

'I thought you could use something to drink; you've been sitting here for hours with nothing to eat or drink.'

'What do you mean I've been sitting here for hours?' I snap at her, although I do pick up the pink fizzy drink. When you're thirsty, a cocktail will do fine, although I prefer a good red wine while having dinner, which I plan to do as soon as I rid of her. 'I've barely sat down five minutes ago.'

'Sorry baby, I guess one of us lost track of time. You like?'

She sips her own drink sensually. Or tries to in any case. Compared to Cally she looks as seductive as a drunken prom date. I've seen her type too often. Not too smart. All big eyes, easily hurt, needing attention or approving from the wrong kind of guys. Disposable fucks, I'm used to call them. That, at least, explains the vague feeling of familiarity.

'It's a start.'

'I'm Trixie, by the way. Tricky Trixie, but you can call me Trixie. I guess I don't have to ask who you are.' She winks and traces the edge of her glass with her index finger. The rough sugar frosting doesn't cooperate. I find her annoying and try to ignore her. I down the sickeningly sweet drink in one gulp and smack it down a little too hard.

'No offense, love, but Trixie sounds like a cheap whore's name.'

Usually that would blow them off good, but Tricky Trixie, it seems, is not to be put off now that she has found something to latch on to.

'Of course, it's not my real name, silly. But you won't remember that either, so what's the point? I was just wondering if you were having a good time, like me. You look a little out of place and I've been here for a long time. At least, I think I have.'

She giggles and sips from her straw. 'Like I said, it's kind of hard to keep track of time around here.'

A waiter puts another alcoholic sugar bomb in front of me. His ridiculous uniform makes him look like a cruise ship captain with an apron. I yell after him I want my wine, damn it, but the captain's gone already. Glaring after him, I notice that Trixie keeps on talking. I decide to ignore her and scan the crowd, both sitting and dancing. My breath stops short in my throat as I see Cally dancing.

She's moving rhythmically to the music, her body impossibly flexible and her moves as smooth as running water. Her breasts and hips pulse and turn. Her black hair seems to move on its own accord. It's like looking at something so singular beautiful and delicate as a marble statue of a Greek Goddess and at the same time as sexual as the best fucking porn I've ever seen. She is surrounded by a clique of very handsome men, who are dancing around her as if they're caught in a slow motion tornado with this tall, dark haired nymph in the middle.

'Like moths drawn to a candle flame,' says Trixie. 'You have good taste! That's Cally, but you already know her, of course. Then again, do you really?'

I stare at her blankly, the image of a dancing Cally still burned into my retinas.

'She's something special, isn't she? All the boys want her, all the girls are jealous. And most want her too, in the same way.'

Trixie is now sitting next to me, her shoulder pressing into mine as she whispers in my ear. I can smell the alcohol on her sickeningly sweet breath. Suddenly she is making me very uncomfortable. She gently takes my chin in her hand. At her touch the strange feeling of familiarity is stronger, but I can't focus because she redirects my gaze back to Cally's writhing and pulsating figure. Trixie's touch is gentle and soft and it need not be anything else because I want to look at Cally so very much, but underneath her touch I feel it is impossibly strong, like a vise wrapped in silk.

'Don't you think she's pretty? Don't you want her? She comes at a price, honey. What are you going to do for her? Will you buy her presents? Would be tricky, baby. Her mind is Tiffany twisted, all colourful little pieces of pretty glass, but sharp and edgy and very expensive. She's got the Mercedes Benz out in the parking lot. Got it from one of the boys out there dancing and romancing her right now. Are you going to beat that? That's just one of them. And she's got a lot of pretty pretty boys she calls friends, but I call them for what they are. Entourage. Accessories. Nothing but some pretty things to surround herself for the occasion and dismissed just as easily. Will you be her earring? Her purse maybe? Will you be part of her vanity and hope that in return she will be part of yours? And what will you do then, baby? Will you go to her and dance with her on this endless night? That is what you are thinking about, right?'

It is. Even though I'm utterly freaked out by Trixie still holding my chin like a medieval torture device, I'm looking at Cally and her admirers. How they dance in the courtyard. I see her sweet summer sweat forming on her golden skin. I want her so bad. So desperately. At this point I would do anything to have her in my bed and rip that dress off her breasts and bite her small dark nipples. My erection is painful in my sitting position, but I dare not move. I'm so scared and turned on at the same time.

'Oh, I know what you're thinking. You want to dance too. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget. All of them dance to be with her and you are no exception. I know, because if I let go of you, you will be there too. Wooing her. Presenting yourself to her, while you cling to a last string of delusion, thin as a spider's web, that she will acknowledge you and take you to be with her.'

The waiter materializes at the next table, inquiring if our neighbours require more drinks. The vise suddenly releases my head. Trixie leans back and giggles with her hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes are just the tiniest bit crossed. If I didn't know any better, she looks as drunk as a skunk and totally harmless.

I desperately try to get to grips with the situation, but nothing makes sense. At least the waiter in his pompous uniform reminds me how much I need a drink. Something to wash down this freak show and numb my senses A.S.A.P. So I call up the captain.

'Look, I can't take this sweet stuff anymore,' I tell him. 'Please bring me my wine. Give me a Merlot quick and make it a good one, got it?'

'I'm sorry sir,' he says, 'we haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine. I can get you a nice Cherub's Cup. It has strawberries in it, among other things.'

'Strawberries? You pulling my leg? Know what, forget it. Get lost. I'm going to my room and figure out how to get the fuck back to LA.'

The waiter vanishes in the crowd and I move to stand up, but Trixie lays her hand on my leg. As fast a striking snake and she damn near crushes my thigh bone pushing it back down.

'Sit down, baby,' she hisses. 'You're drawing attention to us.'

I don't resist. Something is going on here and it sure as hell is not agreeing with me. But for now, I need to figure out my next move.

'I'll give you something to look at, baby,' Trixie says. 'All you need to do is open your eyes. Look at me, Lennard.'

I look. I look at her bland pretty-ish face. She's looking into my eyes. I look into hers. Big, round, somehow still full of the innocent surprise little kids have. Set in a pretty face, white as a sheet while bright red streams of blood run down from her nose and mouth. They are staring back at me. Back down from the ceiling mirror. I am looking into the eyes of the dead chick that OD'd on bad coke in my LA hotel bed while I was fucking her. And yet, they are also staring at me here at this damn party in middle of the California desert. She is also a pretty young thing looking way better than she ever did alive. Our eyes are locked, they meet, they mesh, they reverse somehow. Something is happening and now I'm looking at myself from across the same table. Looking at Lead Lowestone, looking better than he ever did. Mature and still full of youthful life. My hair is thick and dark again, my shoulders square and straight. There are no old man's wrinkles circling those eyes, those terrified eyes which are unable to move. Trixie stands up and moves away from the table and so I must look away too. We are moving towards the dance floor. I'm seeing things through Trixie's eyes now and things are changing.

It comes in flashes, like lightning. And like lightning, it leaves the same disorienting after images. The first flash shows the people dancing, but they are not dancing. They are fucking and fighting and both at the same time. Men and women thrown together in an orgy of sex and violence. The floor is slick with blood and semen. They are screaming at each other to die, for more, to hurt them or give it to them as hard as they can. I see a giant of a man. His back is ablaze with fire and the smell of burning flesh is overwhelming. He is raping a tiny woman from behind while smashing her face repeatedly into a nearby table. Her destroyed face is leaving more and more bloodstains on the once pristine white linen. There are other people sitting at the same table, laughing hysterically, their white clothes equally spattered red. Then it's gone and comes the disorientation.

We wander around and halt at a table where two couples are enjoying a good humoured conversation. Everything is back to normal until the next flash. Now I see the men fighting each other, punching, clawing, biting like wild rabid dogs. Each has his woman wrapped around him, their thin white dresses hitched up to reveal their bare asses. They cling with one arm around their man and fight each other with their free arm, as savagely as their partners do. One of them has her hand torn in two, straight down the middle.

Suddenly everything is back to normal, but the images linger, superimposing themselves on the scene of the groovy party in the middle of the warm night air. Finally we come back to our table, where I still sit, unmoving. The next flash shows, for an infinitely short amount of time, me. Not as I am, but as a wrinkled old man with dark hollow eyes, bruised and bloodied. The trademark scarf is still there, but it's soaked with blood still oozing from a horrible head wound that runs across my forehead and into thinning hair. Off-white bone is visible beneath the red mess. Soft grey matter beneath that is the last I see before I pass out.

I'm stuck somewhere in that half way state between waking and dreaming where your emotions have full reign over you, but you have no control or rational thought. Memories are playing peek-a-boo in my semi-conscious mind, popping up and disappearing before I can make sense of them. Visions of pure horror, the wild, manic music of drums, the sensation of falling and falling and falling. Something snarling in blood curdling fury and clawing its way towards me. And finally a dozen hands lifting me up and carrying me through the twisting innards of hotel corridors. Hallway after hallway, corridor after corridor, an infinite maze. I hear it again, echoed voices in the night, like the first time I got here. And still those voices are calling from far away. Like ghosts.


	4. Part 4 – Truth Is The Best Lie

**Part 4 – Truth Is The Best Lie**

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A soft touch on my cheek roughly snaps me out of it. I blink into the bright white light of the ceiling lamps. I'm lying on my back on the bed in my hotel room. For a brief, panic stricken moment I feel as if I'm stuck, as if I'm lying on a molten marshmallow, or perhaps like a fly on sticky paper.

A glimpse of red makes me turn my head. Cally is sitting beside me, cradling my head on her lap. She looks down on me, her face now directly above mine. Our vision is surrounded by the black waterfall of her hair hanging down. She is so beautiful, my breath stops in my throat. I try to tell her I love her, but can't manage to speak.

She smiles and puts her finger on my lips. I tremble at her merest touch. Does she know what I was about to say?

'How are you feeling?' Her voice is soothing. It makes me feel at peace and that is a big deal for me. That is, if there wasn't a twang, a tiny little fish hook of discomfort, stuck deep inside my guts. Bits and pieces of the night before rise up out of the inky deep of the ocean that is my mind. I want to let go of everything, give myself over to her, but I can't. The little fish hook won't let me.

'Sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night.' She continues to stroke my hair and again I try to speak, try to tell her it wasn't her fault, that I woke up on my own. Again, I am unable, mesmerized as I am by her sensuality.

Without warning she stops stroking me, carefully lowers my head back onto the pillows and stands up. Whatever just happened, it's gone now. In agony, I reach out for her, but she is as silvery quick as she is graceful. All I can do is to prop myself up on my elbows so I can continue to look at her. Only now do I realize how sick to my bones I am. Whatever it was I've been drinking, it's now doing somersaults in my stomach. God, I hope I'm not going to puke in front of Cally. Deep breaths come between excessive swallowing.

'Doesn't matter,' I say finally after I've swung my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. The room swims in and out of focus in front of my eyes. I have never felt so tired in my life. 'What time is it?'

'Too late to say, and too early to go to bed.'

'So…' I linger, not trusting to voice my own questions out loud.

'So…' she answers but busies herself with other things. From the looks of it, she's inspecting my room to see if there's anything hidden. Or someone.

'So what happened?' I ask her in all honesty.

'I was kind of hoping you could tell me.' She looks at me long and hard. For a moment all sensuality is gone. A stare, lifeless and cold, is all that can be said about that look. As if I'm face to face with a shark. Nothing but black eyes, devoid of emotion, seizing me up. Then the moment passes and she sidles over to my side of the bed again. 'You passed out because of the ridiculous amount of cocktails you drank. It doesn't surprise me. Judging by the amount of empty glasses on your table it looks like you tried every single alcoholic beverage we have to offer. I'm only surprised you could drink that much and not pass out sooner. Almost as if you weren't alone at your table. Were you alone at your table, Lennard?'

Now I know I'm walking a very, very thin rope. I don't know how deep the fall will be, but the little fish hook turns into a butcher's meat hook and it yanks my guts down towards that imaginary black pit below your stomach, lower than the laws of physics allow.

I feel like a little fish, lost and helpless in a vast and dark ocean. I'm alone and have nothing to cling to except the warm light dangling in front of my eyes. I know it could be my salvation, or the lure of an angler fish, that lurking horror which can only exist outside the light of God, but it is all I have and I am doomed with or without it.

No, damn it! I've been through a lot. More even then the tabloids will ever know, although perhaps not as much as they would like you to believe. After all, according to some of the more popular ones, I've been abducted by aliens and fathered a child with a royal princess. My life has been far from sheltered and care free. I have seen people, loved ones and strangers, die in my arms. I've fought the losing battle of alcohol and drug addiction more than once. Like so many fellow addicts, I always lacked the conviction to truly kick those habits. If one had that kind of resilience, they'd probably never picked up the habit in the first place. But I did go through all the hell and degradation that goes with the downhill slide to the deep place of your self-destruction and the uphill battle to become at least somewhat of a functioning human being again.

I have a son I lost to his mother and who refuses to see me as his father, no matter how hard I tried to make things right with him. His mother poisoned his mind until it was out of my reach. Even so, half the stories she told him were probably true anyway and half the stories would be enough.

I have betrayed and been betrayed by lovers, friends and profiteers alike. More times then I care to remember I trusted someone, only to find out they'd been lying to my face the whole time. It's part of the trade I'm in, I know, but when you find out someone was actually trustworthy in the beginning, just to hear them say there had been a specific moment in time, a cross roads where they deliberately chose to betray you, well – that hurts ten times as much.

So, yes, I've had my share of both ups and downs. I've been dyed in the wool as they say and when my guts tell me not to trust somebody; you bet your ass I trust my instincts.

'I was kind of hoping you'd join me,' I tell her in absolute honesty. I dare not lie to her, but truths are always the best lies. It works. She smiles. On the other hand, she also gets up and heads for the door. She turns around before leaving me alone to face my doubts and fears.

'I guess you need to freshen up. It's the big day today. The whole hotel is in tiptop shape to make sure everything is as it should be. You can always expect nothing but the best quality of service from us.'

'What's the occasion?'

'We're going to hold a feast tonight that will put last night's party to shame. Everybody is invited. It is our way of giving something back to our most loyal guests.'

'I'm not exactly what you'd call a loyal guest. I've only been here for, what? Two nights?'

'Ah, but we're hoping to make one out of you yet. We have many famous people who came by and who never truly left us. Take a shower, put on some clean clothes; you'll fell like a new person. When you're ready, come down to the dining hall.'

'I'd love to, really, but I don't know if I'm up for it.'

Cally smiles and places her hand on her hip. 'Oh that won't do, Lennard. I won't take no for an answer. The whole thing is in your honour after all.'

The door clicks shut before I can voice my puzzled objection. Her red dress still clings to my eyes as an after image and I feel like I lost all control of the situation. Again. As little there was for me to be had anyway.

Repeating the showering ritual of the night before to get some strength back into my rubber limbs seems to work. I step back out from under the foul smelling water and feel much better. I look much better too. I sure wouldn't give myself 61 looking like this. Looking good apparently gives you an appetite too, because I feel my stomach growling. Christ, how long was it since I ate? Come to think of it, I guess I didn't even eat at all last night. No wonder those cocktails hit home to bad. I probably got off lightly with only a couple of bad nightmares.

Tonight I'm going to stuff my face, play it a bit cooler with the drinks and I'll have good night's sleep before calling JoJo again too. It'll be hell talking to him no matter what, with the missed concert and all, so as long as I'm going to be in trouble anyway, I might as well make it a short vacation as well. A couple of days won't hurt. Ha! Perhaps I'll even stay away a bit longer than that. I guess it depends on what happens between Cally and me. I don't know why I freaked out when she's is obviously a business woman. I know her type. An ambitious girl can be as hard as stone and as cunning as a snake. That's ok, it's not like I'm about to ask her hand in marriage. I'll tell her I'm not looking for a steady relationship, but she'll know that statement can go a whole lot of different ways.

I dress myself with the white tux lying ready for me on my bed. There's a small business card on top of it saying: Welcome to the Hotel California in bold red letters. The company slogan is marked across in italic: Such a lovely place. I remember Cally using the exact same words when she first showed me the way to my room. Yep, a professional all right.

The tux is a masterpiece. As soon as I get dressed I don't even care someone has been in my room while I was showering. It fits me like a glove and makes me look twenty years younger, while keeping me distinguished with age. If this doesn't win Cally over, I don't know what will. Damn, I look good. _Like Trixie did, but never while she was alive…_

The thought was there and gone again before I can do anything about it. This shit is starting to get to me. I don't want to, but I feel as if I should take some sort of action. To take matters into my own hands instead of waiting until Cally or Trixie send me from one absurd situation into the next. Oh man, why did this have to happen right now? I finally found a nice place to lay back a while, shrug off my cares and now I have this weird consciousness, as if Jiminy Cricket himself is taking a crap in my ear. No, it's high time I got some R&R. I deserve it, right? Last night was nothing but a stupid nightmare brought on by too much booze thrown together. As if I was actually talking to some dumb dead chick acting like the ghost of Christmas Past. Screw this, I'm out to party!


End file.
